


We took a backroad in my heart

by samshinechester



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Angst, Body Horror, Boyking!Sam/Consort!Dean - Freeform, Brain Damage, Dub-con Blood Drinking, Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Season/Series 04 AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-22 23:55:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23402437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samshinechester/pseuds/samshinechester
Summary: Dean has a green eye and a brown eye.
Relationships: Dean Smith/Sam Wesson, Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 16
Kudos: 97
Collections: Supernatural Spring Fling 2020





	We took a backroad in my heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Canon_Is_Relative](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Canon_Is_Relative/gifts).



It happens while he’s attending Mr. Adler’s funeral.

It’s a boring ceremony, performed by a boring preacher for a boring man, and Dean is just about ready to pull a Houdini when someone shuffles, shuffles and leans close. The pew creaks.

“Hey.”

It’s Thompson - Business Developer Thompson, not HR Thompson - and Dean ignores him. Showing up for formal events is one thing; chatting his colleagues up is another. Plus, BD Thompson is an asshole, too old and brittle and sharp to be likeable. Even his own wife doesn’t like him. Dean himself caught Mabel and the receptionist screwing in one of the meeting rooms, he would know.

The whole encounter is safe and sound on his phone.

“Hey, Smith.”

BD Thompson nudges him in the ribs, and the pew creaks once more, a rifle-like counterpoint to the preacher’s voice. The respectful-yet-sorrowful expression Dean’s been practicing in front of the mirror slips a little.

“ _Smith._ ”

Ms. Rei casts them a sour look; Wilson shakes his head. So far BD Thompson has been whispering, but this time his voice must have reached the pulpit. Dean counts up to five, and slaps on a fake smile. Turns.

“What.” 

The ‘Jesus Christ, Thompson, we’re in a church’ he means to tackle on dies on his lips when BD Thompson reaches out. Fucker’s got thin, thin fingers, and one of those is pointing straight to Dean’s face. He doesn’t recoil, but it’s a near thing.

“What,” he repeats.

“You have a little—” BD Thompson says, and gestures, “—a little something. On your face.”

The fuck does he have, lettuce stuck in his teeth? A pimple? He looked pristine in the morning. Even Sam, who tends not to pick up on such details, _oh yeah-ed_ him. Still, Dean raises his hand and touches his mouth, his cheek, his nose. His chin. Nothing feels odd or out of place, no bumps, no swellings and no missing parts either, and whoa, where did that come from?

“The eye, son.”

Dean blinks. “My— eye?”

“I’d get that thing checked out, if I were you.” BD Thompson nods towards the casket. “We already suffered a big loss, don’t you think? Would be a shame.” 

He sounds way too cheerful to mean it, and a distant part of Dean’s brain vows to forward Mabel’s video to all his work contacts as soon as the funeral’s over. He reaches up again and brushes his eyelids with the tips of his fingers, left and right and what the fuck is BD Thompson talking about, they feel fine, he sees fine, and if this is a way to get back to him for that anti-tanks contract, well—

Dean’s vision tunnels.

*

Much later, after he’s pushed and shoved and stumbled out of the church, after he’s almost gotten close and personal with an Audi, after he’s tripped over stairs and banged into the door frame of a cafe’s bathroom - much later, or maybe not, he’s in front of a mirror.

Dean has a green eye and a brown eye. Heterochromia, according to his mom, runs in the family, and he never thought much of it. It’s part of him, just like the scatter of freckles across his shoulder or that sweet spot below his ear. No biggie. But. But.

The brown one is so bloodshot it nearly looks black, and he blinks and blinks at his reflected image, willing his eye to fix itself, to go back to normal. It doesn’t. There’s a cheap light bulb hanging from the ceiling, so dim it’s gotta be on its last leg, and still it feeds into the headache building in his temples, even after he’s shielded his face with a hand.

Instinct tells Dean to wait. Rein in the dread before it spills into panic, assess the situation. He’s young, he’s healthy, he never had eye issues, except—

—except that one time with contacts, before he had LASIK. Dean can even hear the doctor again, telling him about the procedure. 

‘I can help you. I know what you need.’ 

Banton. Benton. Something like that.

*

Much later, or maybe not, Dean’s phone rings. It’s Sam.

“Hey, babe,” Sam says. The lightness of his words is in direct contrast with his tone. “I heard you caused quite a stir at the funeral.” 

Dean um-ums, non-committal. Sammy’s got that weird ability to just _know_ about stuff, and while Dean finds it grating 99% of the time, right now he’s glad he doesn’t have to explain anything. His eye throbs like a son of a bitch. 

“I’m on my way, okay? Just stay there, grab a coffee or whatever.”

“Sure.”

There’s a pause, static buzzing through the phone. The light bulb flickers once, twice, and blows out.

“Love you,” Sam says then, and despite everything, Dean has to smile. 

“Yeah, Sammy, I know.”

He wants to add he has no clue about the cafe’s name, Sam’s on his own with that, but the call gets disconnected before he can open his mouth. Whatever. Sam’s gonna find him, one way or another.

Leaving the bathroom proves to be difficult. His balance is shot to shit, and even if he’s been keeping his eye covered with the palm of his hand, some light still manages to slip between his fingers. A tiny, rebellious part of him is insisting to get out and drive himself to the hospital rather than sit and wait for Sam; he would, too, if it wasn’t for his Baby. Dean’s Prius might not be a beauty, but she doesn’t deserve to end up wrapped around a tree.

It takes him a couple of minutes to reach one of the tables and pour himself on a chair. He’s close enough to the counter to notice the barista, who grins at him like they’re besties and uh, his eyesight must really be about to go down the drain, because he’d swear that for a moment, the barista’s own eyes flashed black.

Dean rubs his chin. He’s trying very hard not to freak out despite the increasing pain, but keeping calm and collected while he’s maybe yes, maybe not having a stroke - and do strokes fuck people’s eyes up anyway? - is hard. Breathing techniques seem to work only if he has to deal with arms traffickers. 

A waitress shows up, “Howdy, cowboy,” and places a coffee mug in front of him.

“Sam wants you to have this,” she says, then she winks and straightens, pushing up her breasts. Another day, another life, Dean would have smiled, even flirted a little. He used to bat for that team before he met Sam, he thinks.

“Thanks, ah, Ruby?” he tries, squinting.

Ruby taps a nail on her nametag. “Yup.”

The liquid he’s just been served has nothing to do with coffee. It’s as viscous as the Master Cleanse, but it’s dark and too sweet. Still, it makes his mouth water.

He takes a sip, then another. His engagement ring, made of polished bone just like Sam’s, clinks against the mug.

*

Sam shows up when Dean is wondering about a refill. That’s some quality stuff (‘Fresh from the tap’ according to the creepy barista) and Dean feels a little… buzzed?

Weird. 

“Hey,” Sam says as he grabs a chair for himself and sits in front of Dean.

“Hey.” Dean would lean over and kiss Sam hello if it wasn’t for the table and the mug between them - every movement seems to amplify the pain in his eye, so nope. Besides, Sam brought along a guy with a face so messed up he’s giving Dean the creeps. PDA can wait. “So, here’s a funny story,” he says instead, and lowers his hand.

Light stabs his bad eye, making it water, making him flinch. He trudges on.

“How about skipping the niceties and driving me straight to the hospital? ‘Cause I’m telling you, Sammy, I’m this close to scooping it out myself with a coffee spoon.”

A muscle twitches in Sam’s jaw. He turns towards Messed Up Guy, and Dean doesn’t miss the way his nostrils flare. Uh-oh.

“Explain,” Sam says.

“The eye, the old eye was defective,” Messed Up Guy begins. “The, ah, the donor must have had an underlying issue, this is uncommon—”

Wait, what?

“A donor? The fuck is he talking about, Sam?” Dean’s got LASIK for his nearsightedness, he had it the week after his department closed that big landmine deal and a couple of months before Sam walked into his office with the ring. He knows that. He remembers that. He never— “Sam?”

“It’s gonna be fine,” and that’s Sam lying through his teeth, causing Dean’s freak-o-meter to go up several notches.

He gets up, sways, grabs the table to stay upright. “What the hell,” he whispers-yells, “Sam!”

Sam turns towards him and smiles. “It’s gonna be okay, Dean. Just sit down and drink a little bit more, would you? It’s gonna be okay.”

For a moment, it feels like the whole cafe is suspended in time. Sam’s words might be soothing, but there’s something commanding in his tone, something that brooks no argument. Dean wants to fight it, he really does - stop Ruby from scurrying behind the counter, grab his car keys and get the hell outta Dodge, Baby’s well-being be damned - but he’s not in control of his body anymore. He watches himself curl his fingers around a new mug, so full that a few droplets spills on his sleeve.

They’re red. They reminds him of something. He drinks anyway.

*

Much later, or maybe not, Sam and Messed Up Guy are still talking. Something about a clinic, brain damage and someone who once went through a window.

_We’ll fix, De._

Uh.

*

Dean has a green eye and another brown eye. Everything is fine.

**Author's Note:**

> \- I grabbed your prompt and tried to give it an original spin. I hope you like it :D  
> \- Laughablelament on beta duties. Thanks!  
> \- The Killers (title)


End file.
